Dominion: The Price of Power
by Fourier's Lawyer
Summary: "Once, he had looked upon his imposing creation with an immoderate sense of confidence. Now, he viewed each of the Empire's undertakings as an ephemeral existence, subject to destruction by the universal progression of entropy." (assumes that Tarkin survived "A New Hope")


**Dominion: The Price of Power**

By Fourier's Lawyer

 **Chapter I: A Single Failure**

"Look around this room, Governor Tarkin. What do you notice of these people – these dignitaries?" The emperor's voice rasped slowly in menacing fluctuation. Only with Tarkin, would he strike up a casual conversation without the need of armed guards or security. Even Grand Vizier Mas Amedda had been dismissed from their presence.

Thousands of imperial officers of varying rank and status surrounded Tarkin's field of vision. The convention, held in the imposing halls of Coruscant's senate building, encompassed the leadership of nearly every region of the Galactic Empire.

"Each one carries himself differently, believing himself to be influential, but is dwarfed by his superiors. Every officer in this room has but one thing to lose: his power." He responded with the confidence of a man who had _nothing_ to lose.

The emperor laughed: a resonating cackle that would have instilled crippling fear into any other except Tarkin. "An interesting observation, Governor. It is not _quite_ what I had in mind, but is certainly relevant." He allowed his pause to hang in the air. "Each one of these nobles has somehow won the attention of their superiors. You know many of them, do you not, Tarkin? Even in the days of the Old Republic, you worked alongside many of these men. Some were your coworkers, perhaps – your equals? How did you come to rise above them?"

"My successes," Tarkin listed, "my achievements… I led these people when such was necessary. I led them… whereas they failed to do the same for themselves."

"Ah… failure," the emperor laughed, once again, "You humor me, Governor. This brings us closer to my point." He paused. "Each one of these people has failed me no more than once. Those who failed twice- they are no longer with us. Some are dead, others… may now wish that they were. You see, it all depends on the _magnitude_ of their wrongdoing. In my eyes, some failures exist that are of such severity… that they are equivalent to betrayals." He turned towards Tarkin. "And _no one_ has done me greater wrong than _you_ have _._ "

"My Lord," Tarkin protested, "The traitor, Galen Erso – the failure was of his design. It was _his_ thermal exhaust port that became the Death Star's undoing. The flaws have been erased! I've assembled a team of the most reputable engineers and scientists in the galaxy. They are under the strictest of security and surveillance. We are designing the largest, most _impenetrable_ structure ever known. I _will_ avenge the Empire, my Lord. The Rebellion shall be crushed beneath its weight."

"Tell me, why is it that you learned of the flaw, _now_ and not while the battle station was under construction?" Tarkin's expression remained neutral, masking both fear and indignity. He failed to respond to the accusation.

"You need not inform me of the project now underway. I know of it. Do not diverge from the subject at hand." The emperor's eyes met Tarkin's own. "It is only due to your rank and your usefulness to myself and the Empire that I would even _consider_ allowing you to live. However, your failure shall not go unnoticed. You shall be relieved from your duties as Governor and Grand Moff. Your one task is to complete the second Death Star, _without_ any 'flaws' or 'undoings.' _Can you manage this?_ "

Tarkin's pride nearly betrayed him, though he dared not protest the demotion. From Director Orson Krennic, he had stolen ownership of the Death Star. Now, he paid the price of its failure. "Yes, my Lord," he responded, maintaining an even and impartial tone, "It will be done."

The emperor chuckled lightly, as though he sensed the fear-induced wrath within him. "You'll not fail me for a second time, Tarkin, else you shall suffer consequences of far greater… magnitude. Remember, I have far worse punishment to offer you than mere execution can provide."

And he was dismissed.

* * *

Tarkin had left the gathering in utter humiliation, vowing never to speak voluntarily with the emperor again until his task had been successfully completed. He cringed, considering the incompetence of whatever _fool_ had taken his place as Grand Moff and governor of the Outer Rim. Surely, he knew, it could only _possibly_ be temporary. He vowed he would avenge his pride, nonetheless.

The second Death Star would be the most powerful creation in all the galaxy; he would see to it. It would announce the Empire's omnipotence – stand as a symbol of its inconceivable might. It would immortalize him until the very end of time.

But such wild fantasies would have to wait, he supposed. Tarkin now stood, his back to the window, in the Empire's grand hall on the world of Rakata Prime. Remote and only recently discovered, it was the new location of the Imperial Advanced Weapons Department. A convention was currently in session. Officers, scientists, and engineers surrounded him, all dressed in stiff-collared uniforms bearing the insignia of their cause. A trio held their own discussion mere meters from him, somberly contemplating with the addition of each other's guidance.

He surveyed the room, attempting to identify the faces of his inferiors.

For some time, the death of Galen Erso had crippled the initiative. Krennic's obsession with the man, Tarkin admitted begrudgingly to himself, had been at least somewhat founded. The loss of such a crucial figure would have posed an immense challenge to Tarkin, had it not been for Erso's timely replacement.

He located her in the corner of the hall, her attention turned entirely towards the screen of a datapad. She was a relatively young human woman with straight, blonde, and somewhat disheveled hair. She wore the generic black uniform, sported by most of her other colleagues.

Thea Neomedis, the project's primary resource, had become the _new_ driving force behind imperial scientific advancement. Neomedis had first been located less than a decade prior - a young doctoral student of physics working as a technician within the Empire's ranks. Recruited for weapons development only shortly after the completion of the first Death Star's design, she rose quickly to the top, having become an instrumental asset to her department.

She had discovered countless design flaws and engineered solutions to the most difficult of problems – problems with which her superiors often struggled. Her brilliance was unmatched. Even Erso, inspired as he was, could not hold a candle to Neomedis in terms of innovation.

Tarkin knew that she was most likely absorbed in her work, at the moment. He noted, from previous observation, that it would be fruitless to approach her at such a time. Neomedis made a habit of ignoring most who spoke to her. Although she would certainly be uncompelled to ignore an authority so dominant as Tarkin, he knew that she rarely conversed unless for technical purposes. At the time, he desired no such discussion.

He turned towards the window, silently admiring the remarkably lush expanse of Rakata Prime's jungle laid out before him. His hands found themselves linked behind his back and he settled into the deep monotony of thought.

The exhaust port had been added into the battle station's design under the guise of thermal management. Erso had released the technical report, detailing in his own words that the reactor would fail to function otherwise. Had the flaw merely escaped the notice of the Advanced Weapons Department, or had each and every engineer fallen victim to Erso's deception? _Are we blind? Improvident?_

Each passing day, these thoughts tended to plague Tarkin more and more. Since the Death Star's destruction, he had borne witness to paranoia within the Empire – talk of betrayal and defection, fear of downfall, etcetera, and he had found these thoughts – these fears, taking root within his own mind as well. It disturbed him that the mighty were capable of such spectacular failure – that _he_ was capable of failure.

Once, he had looked upon his imposing creation with an immoderate sense of confidence. Now, he viewed each of the Empire's undertakings as an ephemeral existence, subject to destruction by the universal progression of entropy.

For perhaps the first time since his earlier days, Tarkin knew that in order to take back his rank and pride, he would be forced into the front lines of the project. He would have to control every individual decision pertaining to the battle station, for it would take only _one traitor_ – one rogue, to send every meticulous plan into erratic turmoil. It would take only _one traitor_ to initiate Tarkin's failure. Under no circumstances could he or the Empire afford such a thing once again.


End file.
